


The Coat

by gooseberry



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Kíli, Canon Divergence, Dwarves, Family Feels, Gen, Goblins and Wargs, Implied Character Death, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/gooseberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Hobbit Kink prompt that was, essentially, "Kili using the family resemblance to save Thorin."</p><p>The Company is struggling to reach safety, and the only plan that Kili can come up with is taking Thorin's coat and shield and leading the wargs on a (not-so-merry) chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coat

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt was:
> 
> "Well, I'm not sure how this would fit into any Hobbit-Canon, but here goes:
> 
> As a price has been set for Thorin's head by Azog, it is not long until the group is (once again) attacked by a group of orcs/goblins/whatever else Azog is in cahoots with. Not all of them can be as knowledgeable as the Goblin King, though, only having been informed that the 'Heir of Durin' is what they are looking for (and, at best, a vague physical description). Thorin has been knocked out during the attack (maybe Fíli as well), and Kíli decides to make use of his similarity to Thorin to save his uncle. He unobtrusively takes whatever may mark Thorin as a member of Durin's house (like the ring he got from his grandfather etc.) and then proceeds to tell their enemies the exact truth - that he is the last-born son of Durin's line.
> 
> What happens after I leave up to anon - maybe the orcs/goblins/... do not want to tempt fate and leave the other dwarfs behind to bring Kíli to Azog and collect their price? Maybe Gandalf appears Ex Machina (again), but they manage to flee with Kíli/wound him?
> 
> I would just like to have some Thorin and Fíli angst, and maybe a daring rescue attempt, whether successful or not. Durin angst is delicious, even more so with a spoonful of Hurt/Comfort thrown in."
> 
> The fill takes place sometime between Rivendell and the Misty Mountains.

“This will never work,” Dori says in a low grumble.

Kili looks at the flimsy litter that Nori and Dwalin are lashing together, and at the rough path ahead, and feels apt to agree.

“We’ll never go fast enough,” he says under his breath to Fili. Fili is somehow still standing, even with the blood streaking across his face and covering his hair, and he’s taken charge of the entire mess. 

“We’ll do what we can,” Fili says firmly, like the company isn’t standing on its last legs. 

Kili huffs a sharp breath, then says, as softly as he can, “The wargs will be on us before sundown.”

Fili’s entire face tightens, making him look so much like Thorin, and Kili has to look away from him.

“Then,” Fili says, nearly under his breath, “the wargs will be on us before sundown. We won’t leave our king, Kili.”

Fili’s words feel like a slap. Kili looks back at Fili, then snarls, “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. We need an actual plan.”

“Then what,” Fili asks, and Kili thinks his voice might be marginally softer, “do you suggest?”

Kili’s mind goes utterly blank; all he can think is that this not the way things were meant to be. Thorin was meant to be in charge, and Fili and Kili were only meant to follow him from behind. Fili’s not meant to be in charge, and Kili is not meant to be his advisor. They need a king, and they need a wizard, and they have neither.

“His coat,” Kili finally manages to say, his voice sounding strangled even to himself. He clears his throat, then says it again, firmer, “Help me with his coat.”

Thorin’s body looks utterly mangled, even with what little Oin has been able to do to help him. Thorin’s face is bloody and bruised, already beginning to look misshapen from the morning’s fight. His body, Kili imagines, looks much the same, and Kili is profoundly grateful to hear the wheezing sounds of Thorin breathing.

“Gently,” Fili says needlessly, and he lifts one of Thorin’s arms, holds it while Kili tries to strip the coat from Thorin as gently as he can.

It must hurt--it would have to hurt, to have his body moved at all, but Thorin doesn’t make a sound, and his face never changes. Kili swallows down the sickness that’s been growing in his belly, and says, “His shield, too.”

His plan must be obvious to Fili, because Fili grabs the shield from where it’s been lying next to Thorin, then says, “Should you wear his mail, too?”

“No.” Kili clears his throat again, because his voice still sounds so shattered; fear, maybe. “It would only slow me down. I’ll only--I’ll only show myself, then run. If I go light enough, I won’t have a problem.”

“The wargs,” Fili begins to say, and Kili takes a breath and interrupts,

“I’ll stay ahead of them. I can--I can climb trees.”

Kili peels off his coat and Fili reaches out, taking it before Kili can drop it on the ground. Kili hesitates, then takes off his leather vest, too, holding it out to Fili. Thorin’s coat is huge, a heavy thing of layered leather and fur, and when Kili shrugs it on, it feels as though the weight of the world has dropped onto his shoulders. 

“Your hair,” Fili murmurs, and he helps Kili tear the clasp out of Kili’s hair and push his hair all back like Thorin’s. Kili grabs a section of hair beside his face and braids a quick, messy plait that falls along his face. Fili does the same, braiding a second plait on the other side of Kili’s face. They knot the braids, and then Fili takes a step back, looking at Kili.

“Your face,” Fili says, in the hesitating tone he always adopts when he’s about to change his mind. Kili rolls his eyes and tries to scoff.

“They won’t see my face, Fili,” he says back, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to learn the weight and fall of Thorin’s coat. “The goblins will only see my hair and the wargs will smell his coat.”

Fili’s face is looking more troubled, though, and Kili grabs Fili’s hand, holds it tight.

“I swear,” Kili says, “they won’t see more than my back.” When Fili nods slowly, Kili goes on: “I’ll head north--the ground will be rockier there--and then cut to the river. We’ll meet on the other side.”

Kili buckles on the sling of his quiver and sword, then stands still as Fili wraps the shield’s belt across Kili’s chest. Fili’s fingers are quick and sure, doing up the buckle easily, but when the buckle is done, Fili doesn’t step back; his fingers are still on the buckle, and Kili can feel Fili’s knuckles through the thinness of his shirt.

“This is not a good plan,” Fili says quietly, and Kili closes his eyes, clenches his fists. 

“It’s a fine plan,” he says, and he knows it’s a lie. The sickness and fear are rising up his throat, and he wants nothing more than to throw off Thorin’s coat and say, _Yes, you’re right, it’s a stupid plan._ He swallows it down, swallows all of it down, and says, “On the other side of the river, Fili.”

Fili lets go of the buckle and grasps at Kili’s head, instead, tugging Kili’s head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. When Kili opens his eyes, he’s a little startled at how close Fili’s eyes are to his, and how tired Fili looks. The fear comes roaring back up, spreading through Kili’s body like water through his veins, and he grabs at Fili’s head, twisting his fingers into Fili’s hair.

“Go safely,” Fili says, in a voice like a growl. “Swear you’ll go safely.”

“I swear,” Kili says fervently, and he can feel his body shaking, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. 

“Then I’ll see you on the other side of the river.”

When Fili lets go, Kili’s face feels cold where Fili’s palms had been pressed. Kili takes a step back, takes a breath. Lets it out, and says, “Until the river, brother.”

x

It doesn’t take long for him to find the wargs--or rather, for the wargs to find _him_. He is only two, perhaps three miles away from where he left the company when he hears the wargs howl. The howls set his heart racing and his body sweating, and it is nearly impossible to slow his lope, to keep from running like a maddened deer.

There is another set of howls, from the west and the south, and an answering howl from the north. Kili can’t see anything ahead of him, and when he looks over his shoulder, the crags jut up emptily to the sky. He lets himself run a little faster, and he tugs on the shield’s strap, so that the shield is perched on the back of his hip like a beacon.

When the next howl comes, it is from the east of him--behind him, but to the east. They are herding him, he realizes, as though he is a dumb animal to be slaughtered. His heart beats all the faster, his panic growing, and he bolts eastward, toward the line of trees. The howls are coming faster now, and closer, and he can feel the shield slamming into his leg with every step he takes.

When he hits the tree line, he nearly sobs with relief. The trees are crowded and overgrown, branches twisting together to block out the sunlight, and Kili throws himself into the gloom. He’s not far into the forest, perhaps only a furlong, when he hears a roar and a great breaking, splintering sound come from behind him. 

A warg, perhaps, slamming into the line of the forest, and Kili veers northward. The forest is growing denser and darker, bushes and low branches grabbing at Kili’s hair and coat, dead wood trying to trip Kili’s feet. There is the beginning of a stitch in Kili’s side, from Kili’s mad sprint for the forest, and Kili presses his hand against it, trying to will it away.

He is loud--he knows he’s loud, crashing through the undergrowth and gasping for breath--but worse is the way the forest echoes it all back to him, twisted and strange. He can hear himself panting for breath, but he thinks he can hear the hungry panting of wargs, too, and the hooting calls of goblins, all echoed by the damned trees. He can’t take the time to stop and listen, though--the wargs are too close, must be too close, so he keeps running, north and east toward the river.

There is an eroded embankment, where the earth has been carved away, and Kili laughs even as he gasps for breath. It would be water that would erode the earth like that, which means that the river is close. He turns enough to follow the embankment, because he is sure that it will lead him to the river.

The sun is low in the sky, and it only sends the smallest bits of light through the gloom of the trees. The light, when there is light, comes from behind Kili, lighting up the forest in front of him in shimmering patches of wet leaves and bright-colored moss. It’s a scarred tree that makes him fall: the light hits the wet, slippery skin of the tree, where the bark had been torn away by some animal or another, and the reflection of the light startles Kili. He whips around, grabbing for his sword, and when he steps back, his heel slips, then slides off the embankment.

He tucks his head, trying to roll with his fall. The embankment is steep and he falls fast, and when he lands, he has to shove his hand into his mouth and bite into his glove to muffle his screams. It hurts--Mahal, it hurts, the pain cutting through his leg and up into his body, twisting his stomach into knots. He screams and gasps and chokes and vomits, his body twisting in the dust. He can hear the wargs howling as he retches, and the wargs are close enough that he can hear the jeering of the goblins. He turns his face away from his vomit, trying to gasp in clean air, and bites back a moan of pain.

There is another howl, closer than before, and Kili makes himself look at his leg. There is a piece of wood jutting from his thigh, the width of three fingers. He tries to touch it, but his hands are shaking too badly, and his fingers jar the wood. He bites his fist, groaning, and wipes the tears from his eyes with his other hand.

“Up,” he hisses to himself. “Just get up.” 

He had landed beside the embankment, amongst rocks and dead wood and piles of rotting leaves, and now he grasps at the embankment, digging his fingers into the soft earth and cold mud, using the earth to pull himself up. His leg is useless--it buckles with any weight upon it--and he has to lean his forehead against the cold embankment wall, choking back nausea and dizziness. He takes the time to breathe, one, two breaths, then pushes himself off the embankment’s wall. 

The nearest tree is only feet away, and its branches look low enough for Kili to reach, if he jumps. He hops toward it, and lurches, body off-balance. His right leg is dragging behind him, the toe of his boot digging into the mud, and Kili can feel himself sweating from pain and fear. He lurches forward again, and again, and reaches out with his hands, grasping for the trunk of the tree. 

Now that Kili is next to the tree, the branches look higher than he had thought, and he wants to weep. He digs his fingernails into the bark of the tree, then straightens his right leg, locking his knee the best he can. When he jumps, pushing his weight off the ground with both legs, it is pure agony that roars through him. His vision goes gray and he can hear his blood roaring in his ears; his hands feel numb from pain, and he can barely feel it when his palms slap against the lowest branch. He clutches at the branch as tight as he can, then twists his body, trying to get his left foot onto the tree trunk for support and balance.

He pulls himself up onto the branch, the muscles of his arms knotting and straining. He thinks he feels something give in his shoulder and he bites back a curse and a shout. He gets his chest up against the branch, and then he’s tipping forward, twisting so he’s lying belly down on the branch. He takes a moment, closing his eyes and fighting back the disorientation, and then he pushes himself upward and reaches for the next branch.

He is barely out of reach when the first warg hits the tree, leaping and snapping after him. Kili can _feel_ the hot, humid breath of the warg, and fear gives him new strength. He grabs for the next branch up, and then the next, and by the time he is tired again, he is near the top of the tree, far beyond the jaws of the warg. 

Kili tucks himself up against the trunk, straddling a branch and hooking his arms around the girth of the tree. His leg is all red-hot pain, biting through his body, and he takes a shaky breath before he forces himself to look.

“Mahal,” he whispers, and he lays his head against the trunk and tries not to weep. His trouser leg is soaked with blood, from his thigh down to his calf, and it is, he knows, too much blood. He will not be climbing back down the tree, not under his own power. He closes his eyes, then presses his chest against the trunk for balance as he struggles to undo his belt. When he has his belt free, he shifts on the branch, enough that he can wrap the belt around his thigh, above the wood still embedded, and then he pulls it as hard and tight as he can.

The pain is excruciating and leaves him moaning and panting, clutching at the tree with weak and numb fingers. He’s dizzy and nauseous and breathless, and he is going to die alone, miles away from his kin.

It is the noise from below his tree that brings him back to himself; there are more wargs now, and their goblin riders, all looking up at the tree and at Kili. The goblins are talking amongst themselves, and Kili spares them only a glance before he turns his head to watch the wargs. There are five that he can see, all huge, ugly things, and they are pacing around the tree like dogs that have treed some poor beast. Kili can see the wargs’ gaping jaws, their red mouths and glistening tongues, and he feels sick at the sight. One of the wargs sets up a yipping bark and the other wargs pick it up; it sounds almost like laughter.

“A bird,” one of the goblins shouts, and Kili nearly falls out of the tree as he whips around to face the goblins. He barely catches himself, tearing his fingernails against the bark, and he can hear the goblins laughing.

“Strange bird,” another goblin shouts. 

“Ugly bird!”

The goblins laugh again, all of them, and Kili winds his arms more firmly around the trunk of the tree. His leg is throbbing in time with his heart, fast and painful beats, and Kili is too scared to look at his leg and see how much more blood he has lost.

The goblins are shouting up at Kili, garbled words about birds and flying away, but most of their words are the Black Speech. He gets the idea, though, particularly when one of the goblins grabs a stone and throws it up at him. The stone misses by a good five feet, but it’s still close enough to make Kili catch his breath and duck his head against the trunk.

“Fly away!” the goblins shout up at him, “Fly away! Ugly bird!” 

They laugh and jeer and sing, of all things, and Kili clings to the tree, feeling breathless and dizzy. The wargs have stopped their yipping, but now they are all sitting in a ring around the tree, their heads tipped back so they can stare up at Kili. He catches sight of one warg’s eyes, big and yellow and reflecting the last of the sunlight, and the warg’s mouth falls open, tongue lolling out like it is laughing at him.

“Oakenshield!” one goblin yells up at Kili, and when Kili looks down, he realizes the other goblins have fallen quiet. This goblin must be the leader, then--it is bigger than the rest, and probably uglier, too. Kili can’t make out much with the fading sunlight and his own blurring eyesight, but he thinks he catches a glint of a blade in the goblin’s hands.

“Oakenshield,” the goblin yells again, and it turns to the other goblins, says something in the goblins’ language. The other goblins laugh and the leader yells, “Come down, Oakenshield!”

Kili leans more heavily against the trunk. Thorin would say nothing, and so Kili says nothing. (Even if he wanted to say something, he no longer has the breath to yell loudly enough for the goblins to hear him.) The sunlight is nearly gone and the wind in the trees is growing cold; Kili is growing cold. 

“Burn him out,” one goblin shrieks, and another snarls loudly, “Let him bleed himself out--”

Maybe they’re trying to frighten Kili, or maybe they only mean to mock him, but Kili is too tired to care, or to even be afraid. He hurts, and he is cold, and he is alone, treed like a dumb beast. It is not how he expected to be ushered to the Halls of Mandos--it is not how he expected to leave Fili.

He’s shaking now, his fingers and his chest and his jaw all shuddering, and he hurts all over. He wants to be finished, wants to climb down the tree and lie on the ground and let the goblins cut off his head; he wants to crawl into his mother’s lap, to be petted and comforted.

He wonders how far away the river is.

(He wishes he had run faster.)

“Come down, little bird!” the goblins shriek up at him, and Kili curls his body in against the trunk, wrapping his arms around it. He laces his fingers together on the other side of the tree, clenching his hands tight together, and tells himself,

“Don’t be afraid.”

(But he’s not afraid, not anymore; he’s tired and he’s hopeless and he’s hurt, but he’s not afraid, not any longer.)

The fur of Thorin’s coat is tickling Kili’s neck and face, tiny spots of warmth against his coldness, and he tucks his face into the ruff. It smells of Thorin, of smoke and hot metal and leather oil. It smells of home, and Kili breathes it in and waits for the sunlight to fade.


End file.
